


Construction Crew

by Artemis_Dreamer



Series: The Squishy Apocalypse [14]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Crude Behavior, Drabble, Fat Robots, Fluff, Gen, Humor, I'm Going to Hell, Not Canon Compliant, Post-War, Weight Gain, Wilful Ignorance, hangovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 13:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10492158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: However, neither mech noticed. Scrapper dismissed the difficulty of his transformations as a simple issue of rusted joints, while Mixmaster dismissed his overwhelming need for fuel as merely having a healthy appetite.---In which the Constructicons are chubby and in denial.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TomorrowsHero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomorrowsHero/gifts).



> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving weight gain, implied unhealthy eating, and implied belly stuffing.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

If one were being charitable, one might say that the Constructicons were lacking in intelligence and perception skills. If one were being honest, one might say that they were both a few bricks short of a load.

Hence why it took the two mechs such an incredibly long time to notice a change that should have been glaringly and immediately obvious – both Constructicons had gained weight, and were gaining more and more of it at an alarmingly rapid pace.

By all rights, Scrapper should have been the first to notice. Two decaorns ago, his transformation sequence had become noticeably more difficult. As his frame shifted between mech and machine forms, his soft plating was being painfully pinched and compressed, squeezed tightly between the too-narrow seams and too-solid components of his alt mode.

The process seemed to become increasingly uncomfortable with each passing orn. 

By all rights, there was a point at which Mixmaster should also have noticed. Over the past four decaorns, the Constructicon’s appetite for fuel seemed to have increased exponentially. What had once been enough fuel to sustain both himself and Scrapper for six orns was now barely enough to sustain Mixmaster alone for even a single orn.

His fuel requirements seemed to be increasing greatly with each passing orn. 

However, neither mech noticed. Scrapper dismissed the difficulty of his transformations as a simple issue of rusted joints, while Mixmaster dismissed his overwhelming need for fuel as merely having a healthy appetite.

Such wilful ignorance delayed their realization that these changes that had occurred, but did not prevent that realization entirely. In fact, said realization would only be delayed until this very afternoon. 

It was a thoroughly miserable but completely typical afternoon after a long night of excessive oil consumption. Both mechs groggily awakened from their overcharged stupor to find themselves lying in a tangled heap of limbs on an incredibly uncomfortable but reassuringly familiar concrete floor. 

Reluctantly onlining his optics and squinting against the brightness of the overhead lights, Mixmaster realized that he had somehow managed to return to the Constructicons’ warehouse the previous night, despite his horrifically overcharged and incoherent state. Thank Primus for small miracles. There were few experiences less pleasant than waking up in the alleyway behind the bar - particularly during the winter, when said alley was full of glitchmice. 

As the cement mixer struggled to orient himself further, a groan from the floor beside him indicated that Scrapper had been equally fortunate. The excavator in question rolled heavily onto his left side, accidentally elbowing Mixmaster in the chassis as he struggled unsteadily to his pedes. 

The cement mixer immediately primed his vocalizer, intent on telling the other mech off in the most vulgar manner possible. After all, the last thing he needed was yet another dent in his plating - it was already nigh-impossible for him to find a femme willing to enjoy a night of his undeniably charming company. 

What he saw, however, stunned him into silence. 

Since when had Scrapper been this frelling huge? From his angle on the floor, Mixmaster could clearly see that the excavator had gained weight. His chassis hung heavily over his thighs, forming a gut that nearly rivalled the cement mixer's own stomach in size. His thick thighs slid past one-another only with considerable effort, and the plating his broad aft rippled with each movement of his pedes. 

All told, Scrapper now looked quite nearly as large as Mixmaster. Or, rather, as large as Mixmaster had once been. 

Struggling to his own pedes, the cement mixer smirked. "Oi Scrap!" Mixmaster barked, slapping the excavator firmly on the aft, sending waves of motion shuddering through the soft plating. "You ever think of gettin’ a bumper sticker for that thing?"

"What kinda sticker?" Scrapper challenged, turning to glare at his counterpart. He was used to their roughhousing, but had never been particularly tolerant of insults. 

"I was thinking somethin’ like "Junk in the Trunk"," the cement mixer chuckled. "Seriously, Scrap, you ever look in a mirror?"

Scrapper started at Mixmaster blankly, his expression nonplussed. 

"You gained weight, stupid." The cement mixer clarified, rolling his optics. In Mixmaster’s opinion, Scrapper was decidedly less intelligent than himself. He wasn't exactly wrong, but that wasn’t exactly saying much.

"If I needs a bumper sticker, then so do you," the excavator retorted, elbowing the cement mixer in the chassis for a second time. "How ‘bout "Caution: Wide Load"?" 

It was Mixmaster's turn to glare, fury in his optics. Scrapper took a hasty step backwards, raising his servos in surrender. "Come on, Mix. It was a joke! I mean, you gained some weight too!"

"Jokes are supposed ta be funny." Mixmaster grumbled. The cement mixer seemed momentarily willing to calm himself – momentarily, that is, before the remainder of the excavator's words registered in his processor. "Wait a sec, whaddaya mean I gained weight too?!"

"Now who doesn't look in the mirror?" Scrapper smirked. If Mixmaster had been paying him any attention at all, the cement mixer likely would have backhanded him across the faceplates for such an impertinent remark.

However, said cement mixer was otherwise occupied - with the examination of his frame. Pit, Scrapper hadn't been kidding. His burly frame had nearly doubled in size. What had once been a thickset chassis was now a bulging belly, thick rolls of fat protruding from his midsection. What had once been four sturdy limbs were now four ponderously heavy stumps. And what had once been a blocky but reasonably sized aft was now a round, soft, frelling enormous cushion. 

Scrapper had gained a considerable amount of weight, but Mixmaster's frame had positively ballooned. 

"What the frag happened to me?" The cement mixer demanded, gesturing irately to his vast chassis. 

"What the frag do you think happened to ya?" Scrapper retorted, emboldened by a sudden rush of amusement. Mixmaster was quite literally trembling with rage, and as such, his thickly padded frame was quivering from helm to pedes like a sphere of gelatin. To say that it looked hilarious was a decided understatement. 

"Aww, Pit no," the cement mixer groaned, exventing with abject defeat as he ran a servo over his chubby faceplates. The anger left his frame in an instant as the grim reality of the situation abruptly set in. "No wonder we can't get us a couple hot femmes." 

Countless decaorns of heavy drinking and careless over fuelling had caught up with the two Constructicons, in the worst possible way. Their frames had become incredibly soft, massively fat, and conventionally unappealing. 

Sensing Mixmaster's distress, Scrapper slung a heavy arm around the larger mech's slumped shoulder struts. "Ah," the excavator scoffed. "Who needs femmes when you got fuel?" 

His words were an admittedly clumsy attempt at humor, and he expected them to be immediately rebuffed - quite possibly with violence. Instead, his efforts were rewarded with a wry chuckle from the cement mixer.

"You got a point, Scrap. Femmes is more trouble than they’re worth." Mixmaster's tanks growled deafeningly, protesting their prolonged emptiness. "But I’m gonna need a whole lot more fuel." 

The cement mixer turned and lumbered off towards the warehouse's kitchen, intent on sating his hunger. Preferably by devouring every last bite of fuel in the fridge, and then sending Scrapper out to purchase him large quantities of take-out from at least half a dozen different bakeries. 

Behind Mixmaster, the excavator grinned, his optics lingering momentarily on the larger mech's jiggling aft. Yes, femmes were definitely more trouble than they were worth. Mechs, on the other hand... 

Suffice to say that "conventionally unappealing" was not synonymous with "unappealing to your closest and chubbiest friend." 

Not by a long shot.

**Author's Note:**

> For TomorrowsHero - thank you so much for being patient with me!
> 
> Hopefully this makes up at least a little bit for that depressing mess yesterday. In my opinion, Scrapper has a bit of a crush on Mixmaster - it's just that neither of them has realized it yet.
> 
> Requests are unfortunately still closed, but I'm currently working on requested fics involving Ratchet/Megatron and the Cassetticons. 
> 
> Any and all feedback is much appreciated!


End file.
